


Seven Come Eleven

by annejumps



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Aural Kink, Barebacking, Bets, Kink Meme, M/M, Rimming, Silence Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-06-24
Packaged: 2017-11-08 11:16:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I bet,” Eames continued speculatively, “you wouldn’t be able to keep quiet while I fucked you. In fact, I’m certain you wouldn’t be able to shut up.”</p><p>Arthur narrowed his eyes, looking mutinous. “I’ll take that bet.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Come Eleven

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this [prompt](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/20822.html?thread=50905686#t50905686).

Eames had slept with Arthur rather a few times over the five-odd years since he’d met him. It wasn’t nearly often enough. 

The first time, Arthur still had a crewcut. He had been leaner and more tan then, rawer and a bit cagey-looking.

The fourth time was in Morocco, a couple of years after the third. Arthur looked very different by that point, in his fine clothes and with his longer hair slicked down, his uncertain edge having vanished seamlessly into the rest of him, leaving confidence in its wake.

They slept together again in Venice, in summertime. Again, in Bangkok. Miami. Mexico City. New York. Usually after jobs. They weren’t always on the same teams, but Arthur had a way of tracking him down. Arthur always got the nicest hotel rooms, and his intent to have Eames fuck him within an inch of their lives was resoundingly clear. Really, why argue?

Arthur had his patterns. He was blunt. He was decisive. And he was the mouthiest, pushiest bottom Eames had ever known.

In this king-size bed on a late night in Toronto, Arthur had his legs wrapped so tightly around him that he was fairly certain Arthur was wearing grooves into his sides. Arthur had gripped the top of the headboard with one hand and had his cock in the other, and was pushing back against Eames, as usual unleashing a litany of (uncreative) profanity and incessant demands.

“--Fuck, Eames, harder -- c’mon, oh, fuck, right there -- harder, harder, God--”

“Arthur, I’m doing my best.”

“Bullshit.”

“Hardly,” Eames panted in protest. It was always like this with Arthur: he was in a hurry, frequently high on adrenaline, impatient and needy. It wasn’t that he was rude, really; he was appreciative enough of Eames, and his greed _was_ flattering.

“C’mon.” Arthur writhed, pressing up against him with considerable strength, urging Eames deeper with a tilt of his hips. He arched his back, tilting his chin up. “Fuck, Eames, c’mon, fuck me.”

“I’m quite sure I _am_ fucking you.” Eames wondered if Arthur would in fact tear the headboard from the wall, even one-handed.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh, fuck,” Arthur panted, and came, face pink. Eames followed soon after, and collapsed on him, Arthur releasing the headboard and going limp. They were silent, catching their breaths, until Arthur said “Jesus fuck, Eames” in what seemed to be an impressed tone, and waited a beat before shoving him off. Eames disposed of the condom, Arthur cleaned himself of the lube and come on his belly, and they flopped back into bed.

In the dark, Arthur quickly fell asleep. Eames’ last sight before he did as well was of Arthur’s profile. They didn’t tend to linger with each other, or sleep very close together. Regardless, sex with Arthur was always good, and Eames could hardly complain.

Eames woke up when Arthur got up to shower that morning. When Arthur came back to bed, he offered a rough “Sorry” as he saw Eames was awake. Eames wrapped an arm around him, dislodging his towel somewhat, and pulled him close, inhaling the scent of soap and shampoo.

Arthur squirmed, warm skin slightly damp. “If you want to fuck me before I get dressed, you’ll have to hurry up.”

Eames tsked at him. “You’re a bossy prick, d’you know that?”

Arthur shrugged. “Do you want to fuck me or not? C’mon.”

“And you talk quite a lot.”

Arthur rolled his eyes as he allowed Eames to pull him back into bed, towel lost to the floor. “So?”

“I bet,” Eames continued speculatively, “you wouldn’t be able to keep quiet while I fucked you. In fact, I’m certain you wouldn’t be able to shut up.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes, looking mutinous. “I’ll take that bet.”

Eames grinned. “Will you? How delightful. Why don’t we begin now? Nod if you agree.”

Scowling, Arthur nodded. Eames wondered if Arthur was aware of how predictable he could be.

“I’ll just brush my teeth and have a shower, shall I, and you can quietly wait here for me.”

Arthur’s scowl deepened. Eames, still grinning, refrained from rubbing his hands together in glee as he got out of bed. He didn’t hear a word of protest from Arthur, no impatient calls to hurry up. Eames wouldn’t have believed it possible.

When he returned, however, Arthur did look quite displeased and impatient. He was also rock hard, lying on his back, still naked.

“Terribly sorry for the delay,” Eames said, climbing into bed and giving Arthur’s cock a squeeze. He captured Arthur’s resultant gasp in a kiss, one that went on for quite some time before Eames started kissing his way down Arthur’s jaw, his neck. Arthur’s skin around his collarbones was very sensitive, with any attention to it making him curse and issue demands for more southward contact, but now he only panted and squirmed.

Eames kissed his way to one of Arthur’s small, dark nipples and bit at it, garnering a sharp intake of breath; the same treatment of the other nipple got him the same. Maybe Arthur could do this. But then, they’d only just begun.

Arthur rarely let Eames linger with much foreplay; he wanted it hard and fast, and was very clear on that point. But Arthur wouldn’t be issuing a string of orders this time.

He ran his tongue around Arthur’s nipple, and blew on it, taking note of Arthur’s shiver, and did the same to the other. Arthur was watching him, wary.

Eames sat back, and rolled Arthur’s nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, firmly. Arthur inhaled and arched his back, blinking at the ceiling, his fingers curling in the sheets as he bit his lip, a flush spreading over his face and neck.

“Really?” Eames said. “Oh, Arthur, if only I’d known.” He clucked, and shook his head.

With a little huff, Arthur rolled his eyes, but he just gripped the sheets more tightly as Eames pinched him harder.

Eames then smoothed his hands down Arthur’s chest, seeing the way Arthur’s lips parted as if to protest Eames’ sudden abandonment of his nipples. He kissed his way down the center of Arthur’s chest, dipping his tongue into Arthur’s navel, avoiding the head of his lovely cock, at least until he held Arthur’s hips down and licked a wide line up the underside, ending with a press of his lips to the frenulum. Arthur squirmed against Eames’ hold. Indulging him for the moment, Eames took Arthur’s cock into his mouth, feeling him pulse against his tongue, but drew off, grinning at Arthur’s pinched expression.

“Legs up, sweetheart,” Eames said, shifting back. “Hands behind your knees, pull them up. Come on.” Eames plucked the lube from the bedside table as Arthur complied, still looking wary. Eames slicked up his fingers, and stroked them up Arthur’s crack and along his perineum almost idly, avoiding his hole. Arthur grunted in annoyance, trying to shift his hips. Really, it was quite funny.

Finally, Eames teased at his entrance with a fingertip, hearing Arthur’s intake of breath. Eames took his time pressing in, watching the way Arthur’s chest rose and fell, sensing the tension in his frame as he tried so hard to be patient. But he didn’t speak. He shifted, gasping when Eames slowly added a second finger, humming in frustration at Eames’ deliberate sliding in and out. Eames enjoyed teasing his bedmates like this, but Arthur had never really let him.

Eames looked at Arthur’s face; his brow was furrowed, and based on prior experience Eames guessed he was trying not to demand that Eames hurry up and fuck him.

Eames only smiled. “Legs further back, love. Spread yourself for me.”

Removing his fingers (to a huff of protest from Arthur), Eames cupped Arthur’s hips in his hands, and laid down on his front, face between Arthur’s legs. Arthur hummed in alarm, the sound changing to almost a squeak when Eames’ tongue touched him. Arthur was already starting to breathe harder, from the sound of it. Of course, Eames was aware that if Arthur really didn’t want this, he could easily put a stop to it.

This was not the most comfortable angle Eames had made use of for this particular activity, but that hardly mattered. He’d wanted to do this to Arthur for ages, but their brief and to-the-point encounters had left no room for it. It was a shame; Arthur had a delectable arse. Well, Eames was remedying his mistake now, anyway, taste of lube be damned.

Eames licked at him, working him, feeling the guarded tension in him change to a heightened attention at every pass of Eames’ tongue. Arthur inhaled in shuddering breaths; he sighed raggedly. When Eames set upon him with a particularly compelling rhythmic in-out stroke of his tongue, he actually moaned, a throaty sound Eames had never heard from him before.

Eames paused at that, his cock throbbing, and shifted back, dimly aware of his neck aching, to glance at Arthur’s slick, pink hole. He replaced his tongue with two sure fingers as he leaned over Arthur.

Arthur’s rather pale skin went pink when he was agitated or aroused, and it was one of Eames’ favorite things about him, for some reason. Now his face, neck, and chest were as reddened as Eames had ever seen them, his lips parted and eyes dark and dazed as he looked up at Eames. He nearly spoke, stopping himself just in time with a little sigh.

“Always thought you’d like that,” Eames said, not bothering to keep smugness from his tone.

Arthur raised his eyebrows as if to say _Your point being?_ , but he gasped when Eames pressed his fingers in deeper, sudden.

Eames murmured, an eyebrow raised, “Do you object to my not wanting to use a condom?”

Looking surprised, Arthur paused, then shook his head. “Good. You should know, Arthur, the only person I’ve really made time for lately is you.” Of course, Arthur tested himself and everyone he worked with quite often, but it didn’t hurt to say it.

Eames sat back and removed his fingers, and slicked his cock. Arthur had let go of his legs at some point, but his feet were flat on the bed. He watched Eames, eyes heavy-lidded.

Kneeling to press into him, Eames watched him in return, observing the way they both held their breaths as Eames sank in. Arthur usually wrapped his legs around Eames’ middle, but this time, he let Eames’ shoulders press his thighs back. Arthur tilted his head, his entire body a slow sigh as he arched.

Eames bottomed out. This would usually be the time Arthur would begin encouraging him with every possible version of “Fuck me” he could think of. Now, however, his body was forced to get the message across. Arthur typically gripped the headboard or curled his fingers in the sheets; now, one hand cupped the back of Eames’ head and the other glued itself to his hip, squeezing.

Eames fucked him slow and deep. It felt good when they hurried, certainly, rocketed toward their destination, but Eames craved a gradual ramping-up, to take his time and savor. He wanted Arthur to savor this, too; it surprised him how much he wanted that.

Arthur rocked with him, fingers curling against Eames’ scalp. He closed his eyes at one point, lips parting, but not to speak. His breaths sounded almost like words, but they were far more eloquent: an inhale of anticipation, a gasping little breath of excitement, a cut-off moan as Eames changed his angle, went faster.

Eames stayed deep, finally able to enjoy taking his time, to really notice just how good it felt: Arthur tight around him, body responding to Eames’, spreading himself more and more shamelessly, trembling a little as he arched.

“We could’ve been going about it like this for years,” Eames whispered, voice rough. “I would keep you in bed for hours, darling, just like this.”

Arthur scoffed, but it ended in a whimper which he quickly stifled. He took his fingers from Eames’ hair and clutched his hips with both hands now, wanting Eames deeper. Eames found to his surprise that he could in fact get deeper. Then, he couldn’t help going faster. It just felt so good to have Arthur grasping his hips like that.

Eames nosed at his jawline, the tendon of his neck. He closed his eyes, inhaling Arthur’s scent again, the soap now overlaid with a hint of fresh sweat. Pressing his lips to Arthur’s skin, he listened to Arthur’s breaths rough in his throat, wanting to kiss his mouth but not sure whether he would welcome that.

He was surprised when Arthur’s hand moved from his hip to his back to his hair, taking hold of it and somewhat clumsily directing Eames’ mouth to his own. Well, Eames was hardly in a state to protest.

The time for slow savoring was coming to an end, Eames could tell by the way Arthur was rocking up against him, the sounds in his throat on each thrust. Arthur suddenly broke the kiss, releasing Eames’ hair with a tug to tilt his head back, panting, both hands returning to Eames’ hips.

“Will you come for me now, Arthur?” Eames said, voice low and ragged. “While I fuck you bare like this?”

Usually when Arthur looked at him, it was coolly, calmly, and frequently with a narrow gaze. But Arthur was wide-eyed now, open. He looked so much younger, so much more vulnerable, but he was still so _Arthur_ it actually hurt.

“You’re gorgeous, Arthur. Fuck, I never tell you that.” Eames shifted his weight to one hand and reached for Arthur’s cock with the other.

Caught by surprise, Arthur gasped and shuddered. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Make me come, Eames.”

Arthur’s voice, the dark, liquid timbre, the rough little catch of it slipped down Eames’ spine and made him shudder in kind. He wondered how he could have ever not wanted to hear it.

“Yes, love, come on.” Eames stroked him, grip tight.

Arthur sucked in a breath, then released it on a long, loud, shaky groan as he came, hips bucking, fingers tightening. “Eames,” he gasped out, “fucking come in me, Eames,” and Eames groaned, helpless, hips pressing home as Arthur gathered him in.

\-------

Of course, it was different after the bet.

Arthur let his kisses linger, and found excuses for his hands to rest proprietarily on Eames wherever and whenever possible. Eames no longer allowed himself to be badgered into hurrying unless he damned well wanted to be. Arthur was still one to demand things, but the detached air was gone; Eames saw him raw and desperate, or teasing and fond. Eames, who had never been able to master detachment where Arthur (and only Arthur) was concerned, got worse at it until he essentially gave up.

They never talked about it, but instead of always falling asleep neatly compartmentalized on his side of the bed as he had before, Arthur might tuck his face into the crook of Eames’ neck, and sleep on him. Or he might press himself to Eames’ back, lovely and warm, their legs tangled.

When they’d first started sleeping together, on the occasions Eames stayed all night, Arthur would get them up early with barely a word, brisk and distracted. They’d each shower, and Eames would quietly take his leave. Eventually, Eames found himself lounging amidst piles of rumpled feather pillows, eating cantaloupe or crepes as he appreciatively watched Arthur dress following an always enjoyable shower, the two of them having slept in as late as possible. Eames could at last witness the transformation of pre-coffee-grumpy Arthur into smiling-and-relaxed Arthur.

Sometimes Arthur would do up Eames’ cufflinks, or his tie, with a subtle smile and an air that suggested he was telling himself he was doing Eames a favor. Eames’ favor in return was not rubbing it in his face that he had in fact lost their bet. In fact, it was never even brought up.

On jobs, Arthur still went over everyone’s plans with a fine-toothed comb, citing possible problems, dismissing protests. Eames was in the line of fire as well, of course; it only made sense for Arthur to meticulously go over everything, and Eames wasn’t exempt simply because he occasionally (unbeknownst to the others, regardless of what they might gossip about) shared Arthur’s bed. That reasoning didn’t, however, stop him from teasing Arthur.

They argued and pushed, and pushed back. When Arthur’s criticisms occasionally stung, Eames found himself thinking of Arthur using the totem Eames had given him years ago. He imagined him rolling his die with fingers that were only unsure in those crucial moments of doubt. It was impossible that he didn’t think of Eames when he needed that reassurance.

On jobs where Arthur wasn’t involved, in the periods of time when he didn’t hear from him, Eames missed him, for his presence even more than the security of knowing that Arthur, even with his faults, was the best. There were phone calls, but they weren’t enough.

Eames was being sentimental despite himself. He never breathed a word about missing him to anyone, however, in fact, rarely spoke about him.

Regardless, after a long stretch of months in which he hadn’t seen Arthur at all, Eames suspected Cobb knew he’d be all in to perform inception the moment Cobb mentioned Arthur’s name.

**Author's Note:**

> Now with a sequel: [Breaking the Bank](https://archiveofourown.org/works/449954)
> 
> Thanks to Liz, [Amy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asunder/pseuds/asunder), and Julia for all your help!


End file.
